younger corpsman, just arrived at the front, looked disgusted. “Christ, he’s crying.”
The Major, his sergeant and the other corpsman, turned on him at the same time, fists clenched. Their combined anger was like a fist in the boys gut. The Major had to make a physical effort not to hit him.
“Sergeant, someone should instruct the child regarding the facts of life before it becomes necessary to kick the child’s ass through the top of his head.”
The major muttered to himself. “You’ll cry boy, before your done with this place, you’ll cry if you’re any kind of man.”
The Major knelt beside Sergeant Cole and gently wiped his face with his handkerchief. He spoke in a whisper.
“Any fool can see the Sergeant is sweating. Probably fever.”
The corpsman began to apologize, then at a look from Sergeant Keene, shut his mouth tight. As Luther’s pale body came to light, the young corpsman grimaced. It looked as if every inch of his body had been beaten with a baseball bat. The bayonet wounds on his arms and shoulders were jagged, bloody, oozing pus. Around the bullet hole in his chest, the skin puckered, waxy and yellowish-black.
The other corpsman spoke to himself.
“Looks septic, and these,” - he pointed to the jagged cuts- “bayonet, ugly wounds.” He lifted Luther’s wrist.
“Jesus, I’ve seen this before. Teeth marks! It was hand-to- hand for two days on 406. If we keep him alive it’ll be a miracle.”
The Major turned to his sergeant. “You get the MASH Unit on the hook.” He had a hard time controlling his voice. “Tell them! Don’t ask! They’re to send a chopper, Now! If they screw around, you tell them I’ll send a squad back and shoot every damn one of them.”
The Sergeant was shocked. The Major didn’t curse.
“Tell them we’ve got a survivor from the hill. Damn bastard war!” He turned away so the men couldn’t see his face. “We had two hundred and eighty six men up there and so far we’ve got six back, seven counting sergeant Cole. Sergeant Keene, get some water heated. I’m going to take a bath, and wash my feet. I don’t intend for Sergeant Cole to come around and find I didn’t do like he said.”
Chapter 3
Military Hospital, Japan, March 1951
Luther’s eyes snapped open - a soldier’s reaction driven by instinct. It took another ten minutes before the mind, pushing through drug delay, followed the body into wakefulness.
A hospital. Not a MASH Unit. All white and chrome. The unmistakable odor of antiseptic. It had a taste, a smell, acrid and threatening. From the minds eye he examined his body, cautiously, an inch at a time. A dull ache in the shoulder and arm, lesser aches and soreness down the length of his body.
I took one, he thought, in the shoulder. He felt hunger as something good, valuable, basic, but before he could explore being alive, a dark wave of fear filled his mind and nearly overwhelmed him. Panic, raw and violent. He couldn’t see the source. He felt hollow, nauseous.
First the violin case, then the violin began to form in the darkness of his mind, becoming clearer and clearer.
“Where?”
He tried to sit up and couldn’t. He tried to speak out, to shout, but no sound came, just a hoarse gasp.
A nurse came into the private room, saw his face distorted with effort and rushed to his side. His hand shot out and grabbed hers.
“Where is it?” It came out as a whisper.
She had been a nurse for five years, and knew the wounded the way a good sergeant knows his squad. She patiently asked him what he wanted.
“Where is my knapsack, my gear?”
When she understood, she gently disengaged his hand and went to the closet. She knew about him. A communiqué from SCAP Headquarters - Supreme Command Allied Pacific - preceded him. He was the lone survivor of a battle for another godforsaken hill, and no less than General Alton Taylor had recommended him for the Medal of Honor. Usually private rooms were reserved for Majors and above.
She brought his knapsack and rifle from the closet. She stood the rifle against the wall near the bed. The knapsack, she put in a chair next to the bed. She went back to the closet and dragged his duffel over to the bed.
He whispered hoarsely. “Please, ma’am, in the bottom of the duffel, there’s a black case.”
She’d handled a thousand strange requests from patients and knew they had to be taken seriously. It took more than cutting and stitching to heal a man.
She removed an odd assortment of gear, personal mementos, worn clothing, then the case. She placed it on the bed along side his body where he could feel it.
“Shall I raise the bed so you can sit up?”
“Please, ma’am.” His voice was getting stronger.
She cranked the handle on the bed until he was upright. He pulled the case onto his lap and picked at the clasps. His free hand was numb, weak. It didn’t work right. He frowned, not understanding. She came to his side and reached down to the case.
“May I do that, Sergeant Cole? I’ll be very careful.”
He nodded. She popped the clasps and lifted the top.
It was there! Luther felt a visceral charge of relief. He stared at the violin, put his fingers on the slack strings, reassured himself it was real.
“That’s a beautiful instrument, Sergeant.” She looked closer. “My brother plays the violin with the San Diego Symphony.”
She peered down through the top, then stood up with a gasp. She quickly bent down for a closer look. Scarcely changed since the day it came from the hands of the Maestro of Cremona.
“ANTONIUS STRADIVARIUS CREMONENSIS.”
“Jesus and Saints preserve, it’s a Stradivari! No wonder you were worried.”
What’s she talking about, it’s just a fiddle. It’s made real fine, that’s a fact. He had saved it. That mattered.
He closed lid and the snaps himself.
“Does that closet lock, ma’am?” he whispered.
“Yes, it does. I’ll put it away if you like.”
“Please.”
She put his things back in the closet and locked it. Then she came back to the bed.
“I’m going to check you over before the Doctor comes.” She proceeded to check his temperature and pulse.
“Uh, ma’am, that stuff in the closet is private.”
She looked at him, nodded, and smiled.
“My
